"Ok, bye Mama!" My two year-old said sweetly, blowing me a kiss for the umpteenth time since he had sneaked into my bedroom during my 'quiet time' for a quick cuddle. "Love you!" He waved and closed my door.

I smiled to myself, doing my best to commit the moment to memory. Too many of these moments are already things of the past. He is getting so big and so independent so quickly.

We had not seen eye to eye much of the day—much of the week, really— about what he was and was not permitted to do, and I was surprised to see him so affectionate toward me at all, things considered.

What trust! The thought occurred to me out of nowhere. Trust.

It seems that trust has been a hot topic around me lately. Last weekend, for example, a lady stood at a podium in front of us at our church's women's conference and declared that:

"Faith is believing God can do something for someone else.

Trust is believing God will do something for ourselves."

That one stayed with me.

I find it easy to believe that things are going to work out for you. On a good day, I can believe it for US. But to believe for only myself takes me to an entirely different realm of discomfort.

As I chewed on this thought, the baby (or so we call him) once again entered my room—in complete disregard for my plans in this particular quiet moment as much as the very moment he made his presence first known in our lives. He began to prance himself up and down the steps that lead to our restroom and closet area, marching unequivocally to the beat of some internal (and very personal) drum.

Suddenly, he missed his last footing down the steps and landed squarely on diapered bottom—a stunned look upon his face. The tears began to fall as he realized that not only was his dance interrupted by this blunder, but his backside was throbbing, as well.

“Are you ok?” I asked sympathetically—myself no stranger to embarrassing and, at times, painful missteps both literal and metaphorical.

“Need hug,” he managed through his whimpering. He looked as though part of him would much rather have fallen down anywhere other than under my compassionate gaze. It’s hard to fall down in front of friends. Even harder to need something from them after the fact.

I hugged him, asserting that I would not kiss his injury, yet assuring him that I was certain he would be just fine. “Happy Birthday, Mama,” he replied, nodding. It is not my birthday. We understand one another very well.

As he left the room again, once more blowing kisses and shutting my door, my thoughts returned to this concept of trust. I love concepts. You don’t have to do them. Just think them.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your level of spiritual maturity, the Holy Spirit does not let me simply *think* concepts these days (especially those of such magnitude) without also implementing them into real life and making them into daily disciplines.

The truth is…trust makes me feel uncomfortable. I believe that my Father is there to catch me. I just don’t ever want to have to fall in front of Him (or you, if I’m brutally honest) to find out. Because life is not quite as idealistic as I wish it were, it’s all too often that I come face to face with God’s trustworthiness in just such a teachable way. It is there with my throbbing pride that I most understand what it means to trust.

Like my son, I tend to march to the beat of my own drum. I find myself lost in a dance at times and often lose my footing for lack of focus. Unlike my son, my presence was not a surprise to my Father. My fails and my falls never seem to catch Him by surprise either.

But like my role with my own son, my Father is a compassionate parent who is ready at a moment’s notice when I’m in need of being helped up and dusted off—of being reassured that everything is going to be ok. All is not lost for one missed step.

And it is out of this knowledge that a child is able to continue their march, knowing that WHEN they next get lost in the rhythms, that the Father will be there once again to restore. There is great freedom in this trust. There is freedom to dance. To fall and to fail. Freedom to miss a step, because if there were not such a freedom, there are those of us who would take no further steps. We would be stuck. We would be scared and stuck.

My son knows the boundaries in his life not because I have taken him by the hand and pointed out every potential danger. He knows the boundaries because he has found them by exploring. He has searched his world with a carefree and confident curiosity. He knows that he is free to discover, because he trusts that his guardian will establish a boundary when necessary.

Imagine being so free in the daily exploration of our own worlds. Imagine art born from that place. Imagine relationships built on such a foundation. No fear. Just freedom to discover.

Our job is not to figure out how to be free. Our job is to trust the one who is trustworthy. And out of trust in His ways, we will find ourselves walking in freedom.

Trust turns up the volume to the rhythms of life. Trust marches on in that rhythm even if it doesn’t seem to match another’s. And trust remembers that there is freedom to fall as much as there is grace to stand and march again.

Of all the dishes that she could possibly have been, she was grateful that she was a serving dish. Not only was she a lovely and valuable dish, but she was useful. And to this dish in particular, that was all that really mattered in life. Thousands upon thousands of meals had transferred from kitchen to patron and back again. And they were really very good meals.

Friendships were forged over meals she served. Hands shook across tables where she was placed. Romances sparked…and a few fizzled out. There were celebrations, both in life and in death.

Her service was greatly appreciated and she was used to do so over and over and over again.

Then one day, the Proprietor took her in His hands and running His fingers over the intricate patterns on her face, smiled and placed her out of reach onto a shelf with the other décor in the dining room.

Several boxes began to arrive soon after and nimble hands removed shiny, new dishes from the boxes. They were exquisite dishes. The serving dish looked on as her replacements were handled with awe and gentle respect.

They would be used to serve all of the same people that she’d been serving. The patrons had long since lost their sense of being impressed with her. She was the same dish they’d seen for years, serving them really good food, but all fairly the same.

These new dishes, were…well, NEW and “Weren’t they sooooo exquisite?” The diners would say to themselves excitedly. Some of them would look at the old dish and remember, recounting to themselves how she had served up so many good meals. But ultimately, the people would move on and forget the dish resting alone upon the shelf.

One day, the Proprietor came into the dining room and considering the shelves at length, took the serving dish down from her dusty place of rest and brought her carefully to a solitary place. This room was a fine room, filled with only the finest things. Where the dining room had always been noisy with laughter and the clanking of glasses, this room was serene…special…set apart.

The Proprietor took His time, taking the dish and giving it a wash, then placed her on the softest and whitest of table linens, next to some of the most exquisite pieces the dish had ever seen. An antique tea cup and pot, fine bone china, polished silver reflecting the artwork on the ceiling, crystal glasses that cast prisms all over the room…and then this, the serving dish.

She no longer felt so exquisite. Looking around at the beauty and usefulness of these other—no doubt more exquisite—pieces, the dish began to feel insignificant, out of place. And though the beauty of the room and table setting pleased the dish, she wondered what on earth she was doing in this place.

The door is swung wide open as a tray leads the Proprietor into the room. He removes the cover and begins pouring wine into the crystal glasses, the prisms on the walls now tinged a faint shade of red. A kettle pours next, filling the teapot with steaming water, steeping dark earthy leaves and filling the room with the scent of spices.

He turns His attention to the bone china, placing a loaf of crispy, flaky bread on one plate and a decadent arrangement of fruit and cheese on another. Fresh butter appears in a dainty dish and finally…He turns to the serving platter. She’s just a simple serving plate to anyone who might glance hurriedly over the spread, but the intricacies of her design would argue otherwise.

Raising the dish, He presents the finest rack of lamb, steamed vegetables, bitter greens and a red currant reduction ever so artfully onto her surface. The plate can scarcely be seen anymore but for this beautiful, aromatic meal. No doubt it will be filling to the one who is lucky enough to partake of it. He places the dish carefully back onto the soft linens and admires His work. It is ready. He lights a taper in the silver candlestick and quietly exits the room.

Not a moment later, a woman enters. She is clothed all in white. Her face beams at the sight of the meal set so beautifully. She takes in every detail from the flickering flame of the candle to the white linens and the sparkle of the red wine in a crystal goblet. She breathes in deeply the scent of spices from the teapot and her mouth begins to water at the sight of the crusty bread. Sitting, she gasps at the tender lamb prepared perfectly. Her heart leaps as she thinks of the One who has thought of every last thing for this beautiful meal. She silently offers up her thanks and again thinks how much she loves Him.

The meal is exquisite. Every morsel sets her taste buds to dancing. She has never eaten a meal so fine—so filling. When she is finished and is sipping the tea and the scent of the spices has wafted away like incense toward the heavens, she sees the dish. It is an exquisite dish.

She rises to leave, reaching to blow out the candle with a breath and sighs contentedly as she exits the room. She will not remember the dish or the crystal, specifically. She will not remember the silver or the bone china. But she will always remember that the table was set just for her, by the One who loves her. She will remember the exquisite meal…as no other meal will ever satisfy like this one had.

The dish had never experienced a meal like this one. Many hurried meals had been enjoyed at her service. They had been loud and light and full of laughter. The meals were quite filling but rarely satisfying in such a way as this one had been for the lady in white. The dish, herself, felt a certain satisfaction at having taken part in such a display.

There had been no rush, no commotion. No boisterous ruckus. This had been soft and sweet. Every bite had been savored as though it were the last. Every sip sat behind lips just a bit longer than usual. The candle burned down, dripping its wax as the scent of the food became only a memory. And with every moment, the lady in white seemed to be giving thanks and thinking fond thoughts of the One who had prepared this meal just for her.

The dish understood now. She had not been retired to a shelf, but reserved for a service that required the willingness and usefulness of a dish such as herself. Remembering her days at rest and how alone and irrelevant she had felt, she realized that it had all been worth it. Necessary, even. And she had been served by this meal as much as she had served her purpose for the lady in white. She knew, now, that quiet and private service was not any less than the loud, public kind. If anything, the honor and satisfaction she felt here far outshined the other.

He entered the room again, looking over the remnants of the meal that He had prepared and the white lady had partaken. He looked pleased as He lifted the serving dish, clearing the scraps from her surface. Taking the dish gently in hand, He took her to the water again…to wash her.To reveal her beautiful, intricate design, once more.

She was an exquisite dish. He slowly traced His fingers over the initials on the back of the dish. His.

]]>http://lizroberson.com/blog/the_serving_dishSun, 18 Sep 2016 00:00:00 -0700Liz Roberson | Liz Roberson Music | BlogHow Much Can One Heart Break?http://lizroberson.com/blog/how_much_can_one_heart_break_
*The following post was originally published a few years back after I had the notion to sit in my driveway and smash a potted plant to smithereens. The message took shape as the process went on. I took photos of each step, which are long gone, but the spirit of the message remains.I hope you are blessed. -Liz

How much can one heart break?

Once upon a time, there was a plant in a pot. A potted plant.

At first glance, the pot looked to be intact. It mostly held the plant together. It kept other things off of the plant. It functioned. But if you looked closely you could see that the plant was quite dry. It had not been well cared for. Its refreshment had come from rainfall alone...but wasn't enough to sustain life.

One day, a man came along and found the potted plant. He instantly loved it, longed to restore life to its desolation. So He took it home.

He set it on a work table and took in its condition. Clearly this plant needed extra care.

Suddenly, in a seemingly unnecessary move, he swung...connected...and broke it open. The contents spilled away, on display for anyone who would look. But who would look?

The man was pleased. And with another blow, and another...and another...

Its original form could not even be recognized anymore. Where once it could hold and hoard; where once the plant was protected and the pot was polished on the outside...now it lay exposed. Broken. Vulnerable. Messy.

The man began pulling away the dead things from deep inside. A spider, having lost his home, scurried away. The man began again.

He is relentless now, not one piece escaping His eye. He smashes, He grinds. The shards are shattered until they resemble the dust that they came from. Ashes.

And then. He gently begins gathering them back together with His own hands. He adds water. He isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He sinks them into the muck. The mess.

He shapes. He forms. He molds. He works through the night--through the night--because that is when artists (such as He) seem to find the most furious inspiration. Maybe it's in the very darkest of times that even the faintest flicker of light can be found the most glorious.

He smiles because His plan for this new creation is more beautiful than it could ever have been before, more useful than it could ever have hoped to be. It will no longer be a vessel for a dying prickly plant, but for a living fruit-bearing plant.

He lifts the new creation, admiring His work. He takes in its beauty as He takes it to be put into the fire. Into the fire?

Only a little while. Only just long enough to make it strong and steady and sure. Only long enough to make it radiant, just until you can see the sheen of the fire on its surface.

And then. He reaches in to retrieve it from the fire...

I hear you. I hear the question that you dare not allow past your lips. I hear.

He takes pleasure in the pain?

NO!

The Artist took pleasure in the potted plant, though nearly dead. He took pleasure in the process of bringing it back to its origin and then in the process of making it into something new--bringing it new life. He took pleasure in His purpose, in His plan. He took pleasure in the possibilities. In the thick of the story, in the middle of the pain--He took pleasure in what He knew HE would accomplish.

And as I looked at that pile of dust on my driveway, He spoke to me deep inside.

And He said:

I'm not interested in being King in your kingdom. In your kingdom, it's on your time...by your rules...with your limited resources.

No...your kingdom must fall. It must be brought down to nothing.

I don't want to be King of your kingdom. I want to build MY kingdom right here.

Right here where you had other plans. Right here where it is broken and messy and painful. Right here where you were barely surviving before I came along. Right here where you thought things would turn out differently. Right here where that person left you. Right here where you never imagined it would turn out this way...

You tell me that you want Me to be Lord of your life. But the truth is that you have no life apart from Me. What you imagined was living before this was desolate and dreary and not anywhere near what I dreamed for you from the beginning of time.

I don't just want to be Lord of your life. I. MUST. BE. YOUR. LIFE.

So...How much can one heart break?

Completely.

He isn't interested in rebuilding our kingdoms. He wants to shift the bedrock of our souls...break up the hard, packed earth...lay down a new rock solid foundation and build HIS kingdom right here out of the ashes of our own.

Oh, break our hearts for what breaks Yours, Lord.

]]>http://lizroberson.com/blog/how_much_can_one_heart_break_Tue, 28 Jun 2016 00:00:00 -0700Liz Roberson | Liz Roberson Music | BlogWhen The Burden Is Too Heavy To Bearhttp://lizroberson.com/blog/when_the_burden_is_too_heavy_to_bear
Last night, we found ourselves traveling home in the dark after a day trip to another town here in Texas. The road we had taken ran parallel to train tracks much of the way and I found myself captivated by these vast machines carrying freight.

One train was so long that it was still passing us after several minutes, even with each of us moving in opposite directions. It was very dark out on those country roads and at times I could only make out a slight shadow of movement just beyond the trees.

The freight cars were swathed in darkness, but the engine pulling them contained a blindingly bright light pointing toward the direction they were headed. They moved quickly, but I knew that in an instant if the engineer were to see something in its path, he could bring them all to a swift stop.

And then, just like that, they would be chugging along once again, gaining speed and carrying on with their task.

The wheels in my mind began to turn and pick up speed as the thought occurred to me that these freight cars would never travel so quickly without a mighty engine pulling them along—if at all. They were much too heavy and they had no light of their own to navigate the dark and winding tracks.

The engine made it possible for the freight cars to carry heavy things through very dark places in the quickest and safest way.

Peter wrote to the church which had been scattered far and wide by persecution, some very specific instructions on how leaders should carry themselves.

For years, I have heard this verse as casting your cares on the Lord. Literally throwing them onto Him.

But what would it look like for us if we didn’t do as the verse says? Might we be loaded down with cars upon cars of heavy freight incapable of going anywhere because the load is simply too great and we cannot discern the way? What might occur if we were unable to see something ahead on the tracks?

Stuck, lost…colliding with anything and everything in our path.

Everything changes, however, when we connect ourselves and all of our heavy load to the strength and power of a mighty engine. When we let God carry our burdens, worries, anxieties and stress, we can move and navigate easily through dark places because of His light and direction.

The bible doesn’t say that because God cares for us, He takes away our burdens and worries. It isn’t that we are no longer weighted down by heavy things. It is only that we can continue to live and move and have our being, because He carries for us all of the things that have kept us stuck and lost for so long.

]]>http://lizroberson.com/blog/when_the_burden_is_too_heavy_to_bearWed, 07 Oct 2015 00:00:00 -0700Liz Roberson | Liz Roberson Music | BlogWhy You Can Move On And Still Be Okayhttp://lizroberson.com/blog/why_you_can_move_on_and_still_be_okay
I have moved 25 times in a little over 30 years.

This occurred to me last night when I was helping a friend pack up her things. And actually, I have moved quite a bit more than this...that is simply the number of places that I have lived.

It is a chore to move. But the chore is lessened by less things. Often I discover just how many things I possess that are absolutely worthless to me in the moving process. Stuff gets donated and given away. Sometimes there’s a garage sale if I’m feeling particularly ambitious.

When I have whittled down my belongings to what I deem absolutely necessary to travel with to my next abode, then the packing begins. I have learned that good packing material is imperative. Labeling is not. It all gets stacked together in a hard-to-reach spot anyway by strong and selfless friends who show up to help.

Something inevitably breaks. Usually the thing wrapped the most carefully.

Moving day goes by in a whirlwind and suddenly, you are walking through the place that you have called home—even if only for a little while—and all of the memories come flooding back.

There are always good times and not-so-good times in every place, but to me it’s the day-to-day moments that bring that little lump to my throat. Standing and swaying with a tired, teething baby in the dark quiet of a nursery. Sounds of giggling and banging when teeth are supposed to have been brushed. Squeals of delight when papa arrives home from work at the end of the day (accompanied by a sigh of relief from mama). Sweet snuggles between dances in the kitchen.

Closet doors hang open, their emptiness a testament that life has moved on from this place. A lone cheerio rests in a corner. In many corners.

And as the door closes on the echo of all of these memories, you realize that they are not imprinted on this physical place, but on your soul. The leaving is easier now. Your hold is lessened on one more thing in this world and you take your empty hands on to the next adventure, ready to receive whatever is headed your way.

Such is life, my friends. While I have physically moved many times, I have moved on from many, many other things in my life. From one situation to another.

It’s not from bad to good or good to bad. Often we leave good to a different kind of good. But things do get broken in the process. You let go of even more things. Sometimes, the memories make it difficult to leave and we linger just a little too long, trying to embrace what was just a bit longer.

But there are always friends to help you through the move, aren’t there? And though the process is often messy and chaotic, you find that as you step into the new place…life goes on. And you have grown and gained things that you would never trade just to stay in one place.

Life moves. It moves or it is stagnant. And we are moved along with it only to find more of it waiting to be discovered.

]]>http://lizroberson.com/blog/why_you_can_move_on_and_still_be_okayTue, 06 Oct 2015 00:00:00 -0700Liz Roberson | Liz Roberson Music | BlogThe Worst Friend I Ever Hadhttp://lizroberson.com/blog/the_worst_friend_i_ever_had
She stared back at me, waiting for my reply. But what could I say? Her words knifed through me, once more:

Who do you think you are?

Better yet, she had continued, how can you possibly think that you’re cut out for this?

Do you even understand the kind of drive that it takes to do what you’re telling me you want to do? Years of paying dues. Rejection. Not to mention the sheer skill level involved. And you, quite frankly, do not possess it. Even if you HAVE what it takes, so do thousands of other people.

And have you seen yourself, lately? Not exactly marketable. Not very impressive at all.

Just what is it that you think you have going for you?

I took a deep breath. Sighed it back out.

She scowled at me. Nothing I could possibly say would convince her that I was capable of doing this. But was I capable? Or was she right? Why did I keep listening to her?

Her words always left me doubting. Confused. Fearful. Why did I keep listening to her?

I washed my hands and looked up at her again, wiping a smudge from the mirror in front of her now perfectly-made-up face. Why did I keep listening to her?

Because she is me.

Most of us would never dream of speaking to someone else the way that we speak to ourselves. Likely, you realized before it was even revealed that this was an inner monologue.

Because you’ve probably had similar conversations with yourself.

We can be so unkind. And 99% of it is pointed at ourselves.

Why do we save our kind and encouraging words for everyone else? And if we are truly capable of speaking such life into others, then it would be logical to assume that we are capable of speaking life over ourselves, as well. But many of us never do.

I know that if I had a friend who only spoke negativity and left me feeling more alone…I would kick that person to the curb. Maybe punch them in the throat. At the very least, they would not be allowed to speak into my life anymore. So who should?

Let the One who is Life speak over you. Read His words. Speak them over yourself.

Many of us have heard Proverbs 3:5-6:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart And do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He will make your paths straight.”

But we often forget to read on. There’s more in verses 7 & 8:

”Do not be wise in your own eyes; Fear the Lord and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your body And refreshment to your bones.”

It’s always following our own flawed logic that ensnares us to the enemy. But fear of the Lord and acknowledging His words—His LIFE extended to us—this is healing to us. Life to dry bones.

And as I am healed and discover His friendship, I learn to be a better friend to myself, as well.

I nodded once and continued flattening dough. "I had heard something about that," I replied. How do you tell someone that some days when you read a headline to do with war or soldiers in the Middle East, you just scroll past them? And then read gossip on 'Celebrity Look-Alikes'. Again.

My friend gave me a knowing look, telling me her thoughts as I half-listened, partly thinking that I really should be aware of these things and partly thinking that I really didn't want to be. Some days are easier than others, but even eight years later, some days the memory of my brother's death still feels fresh.

The conversation turned and I commented that there is a whole world of hurt going on outside the walls of my home, where I seek to love and teach my children how to be love to that hurting world. But sometimes I hide from the 'hurting world' part.

At times it is difficult to overlook. Like that one Saturday morning when a young woman beat on our front door, crying hysterically and holding a tiny girl still in diapers. She was being followed by her boyfriend who had threatened to hurt her and could she please come in?

I looked at my husband and opened the door wider. As I began to extract more of the story and convince her to call the police, it became clear to me that God had sent her to us and there was no way I was letting her go without loving on her in some way.

Words began to flow out of me. I spoke encouragement to her that I didn't know she needed. I spoke answers to some of her unasked questions, she told me later.

When her family finally came to retrieve her, we said our goodbyes and she thanked me, noting that she could have knocked on any door. But God brought her to ours.

There's a lot that goes on outside the walls of my home. Every now and then, something bursts through them and I can't ignore it, but the reality I face daily is that I must leave these walls behind and look beyond them to see that my pain is not the only pain in this world.

It's easy for me to sit inside my house, behind my solar-screen windows, seeing everything going on outside and feeling safe because I know no one can see in. But God never promised me easy. He is after me to be seen and to be heard and to be His hands and feet--not just when need comes knocking on my door.

More and more, I am inviting others to see what is here inside these walls. And more and more, I am leaving the walls behind to meet someone behind their own. And somehow, the pain that kept me in my safe, comfortable place--that same pain has become an instrument of healing to others.

The Eternal created me; it happened when His work was beginning,one of His first acts long ago.Before time He established me,before the earth saw its first sunrise.I was born before the deep existed,before any springs poured out their water,Before the mountains were placed on their foundations,before the hills rolled across the land—yes, before all this, I was brought forth.When the earth was yet unformed and the fields were not yet nestled beneath the wind—even before the first dust of the earth—When He created the heavens, I was there.When He drew a circle in the deep, dividing the oceans and the sky, I was there.I was there when He established the sky.I was there when the springs in the deep were fortified;I witnessed Him lay down the shore as a boundaryand put limits on the waterAnd determine the foundations of the earth.All this time I was close beside Him, a master craftsman.Every day I was His delightful companion,celebrating every minute in His presence,Elated by the world He was making and all its fine creatures;I was especially pleased with humanity.

So now listen to me, my children:those who live by my ways will find true happiness.Pay attention to my guidance, dare to be wise,and don’t disregard my teachings.The one who listens to me,who carefully seeks me in everyday thingsand delays action until my way is apparent, that one will find true happiness.For when he recognizes and follows me, he finds a peaceful and satisfying lifeand receives favor from the Eternal.

What a beautiful passage, isn't it? Lady Wisdom, who had witnessed even the most beautiful of creation as it came into being, was especially pleased with humanity. Wow.

I try to read a Proverb and a Psalm every single day aside from other interesting bible studies. But sometimes, reading Proverbs induces this feeling of inadequacy in me. As though I'm not measuring up. Because the truth is...I don't. It's good for me to know that I don't measure up and that I need Jesus. The not-so-good part is when there is shame or defeat attached to such truth.

But usually when those feelings creep up, it's because I have disregarded the voice of Lady Wisdom as I'm reading. This is a very big deal, because if God's commands and disciplines are not read through that filter, defeat and not victory is the result.

When read with this filter of wisdom, however, the Proverbs become something entirely different. They are hope-filled words. They are uplifting as they were meant to be...raising us to a new level of living, REALLY living.

Wisdom's goal is never to shame or make us feel inadequate. Her goal is to give us a peaceful and satisfying life. Happiness follows her presence in our lives.

And we must remember...the goal was NEVER meant to be perfection. That was Satan's first mistake, remember? To be like God. We destroy ourselves when being perfect is our focus.

Our purpose is to grow in our relationship with God. To seek His ways more and more. Growth. Progress...not perfection. PROGRESS. Not perfection.

This thought has set me free in the last several years. And as I have tuned my ear to listen to the voice of Wisdom, when I fail or when I don't quite measure up to a standard I've placed before myself, I hear her voice. It's progress. You're making progress. Keep going. Do the next thing. You are a masterpiece in progress.

Last year, while beginning the last trimester of my pregnancy, I scored a seat at a worship leader 'round table' with All Sons and Daughters. Don't ask me how...I received an email, I followed the link, I signed up. I went back to try to sign up for a few more spots if possible for our worship team at church and the message "This event is full" showed on my screen.

Did I seriously just score the very last spot? You know I tried again. And again. Yep. The very last spot.

(Me, about the time of the round table)

When I arrived at the event, it was fairly early so I grabbed a spot in the back of the room at one of five unoccupied tables. There were freebies and handouts at each chair, so I sat and began to read from a magazine.

A few minutes passed and then I had this feeling like my space was about to be invaded. Out of all of the empty tables in the room, a man chose the one I was sitting at to join. Perfect.

"Hey, how ya doin'?" He asked happily.

"Oh...good. You?" I glanced up and smiled in that keep-your-creeperness-away-from-me way.

He was wearing a trucker hat. You know...like Ashton Kutcher made 'fashionable'? And he had a sweet beard and black hipster glasses. No flannel, though. I went back to reading.

Just then, he started humming.

I swear, he was HUMMING. An 80's song. I started to consider my options. Do I risk making eye contact again and escape to another table with the lame excuse that I can't see the front of the room without my glasses? Do I use the pregnancy as an excuse to go 'use the bathroom'? Oh! I know...I'll fake labor!

"I've had this song stuck in my head all day." He was saying. "I can't remember the name. Some 80's song...what song do YOU have stuck in your head?" He asked me.

Before I could stop myself, I was answering him, "Sing of Your Glory by Bebo Norman." I glanced back down at the article I was reading.

"BEBO!" He exclaimed loudly and startled me. "I don't think I've heard that one. How does it go?"

Still looking down at my magazine, I sang a few bars from the chorus, "I'll sing of Your glory, now. Sing of Your glory, now. I'll sing of Your glory, now and forever."

"Hmm. Doesn't ring a bell. I love Bebo, though..." And he started telling a story about one of Bebo's concerts. A lady had joined our table at this point. An outgoing, chatty lady. I slipped back into my not-seen scene.

Something was weird about this guy. I couldn't put my finger on it. He seemed like he was somebody, you know? But I knew he wasn't in All Sons and Daughters, I knew that much. So who was he?

I pulled my phone out and Googled him. What did he say his name was? Tim Timmons.

Songs started coming up on my phone and I was able to stop the autoplay just barely in time. Geez.

So he was a singer. I guess he was touring with AS&D. I shuffled my papers and snuck a glance at him. The other lady was still talking. Then it hit me.

I JUST SANG FOR TIM TIMMONS.

My heart started pounding and my hands were sweaty. Crap. Crap. Crap.

More and more people were arriving so I just faded into the background even more. But wouldn't you know...Tim Timmons kept pulling me into the conversations. "What do you think about that, Liz?" or "Have y'all met Liz?" or "Oh, Liz was saying..."

Soon, we were starting and AS&D called Tim Timmons to the front to share a bit. He talked about Jesus with crazy passion. I decided that I liked his kind of crazy. He came back to our table and they gave us questions to tackle together as a group.

The conversations quickly turned to things of a technical nature. Paid musicians vs. volunteer and such. And the quality of each. I was quiet during this discussion for a long time. Then Tim Timmons called me out again. "What do you think about all of this, Liz?"

Crap.

"Well...I'm just...I'm really thankful that I'm part of a church that is made up of volunteers. Their hearts are to make Jesus' name famous. We try our best to do it together in unity. And none of us are really rockstars on our own, but somehow together...we are able to facilitate very special moments between people and the Lord. I guess that's why I wanted to be here today. I wanted to experience some of that same unity with others in our city and hear about the things that God is doing in other churches, too."

I said more than this, I know. I just can't remember it all. Everyone was just kind of staring at me. The quiet one who all of a sudden enters into a monologue.

The conversation took a turn and there was a lot more positive things being thrown out there. I listened intently. Before I knew it...the event was coming to a close.

Part of me was disappointed because it felt like it had taken so long to get to the good part and now it was over. And I hadn't even gotten to talk extensively with anyone in AS&D. That dang Tim Timmons...

But the other part of me was relieved, to be honest.

Everyone left as quickly as they came and I was a little slower, partially because I was almost 7 months pregnant and partially because I am just slow. I like to walk slow at the grocery store. Sue me.

Tim Timmons came back over to the table as I was packing up. "Wow, you ARE pregnant, aren't you?" He laughed and told me about his wife and FOUR KIDS. He sat down next to me as I finished getting my things together.

"Do you mind if I say something?" He asked me. Seriously. I blinked. NOW he was going to be polite about invading my space?!?!

I looked at him questioningly. He began, "It seems to me that you apologize a lot. You should stop doing that." Confused, I furrowed my brows and literally almost apologized for apologizing.

Instead, I asked him, "What do you mean?"

"It's just...the group was discussing and when I called on you to talk, you had a lot of good things to say. A lot of TRUTH. A lot of things that the group needed to hear. You shouldn't apologize for that. Don't ever apologize for speaking truth."

I started to tear up. I explained to him that I have not always had success speaking the truth. I haven't always spoken well--in such a way that it would be received well. And I haven't always been received well even when I have spoken well.

He laughed. "That's the nature of it, though." He spoke so confidently. He encouraged me to speak more. That what I spoke did good for other people. "It starts with me," he said tapping his wrist where those words were tattooed.

I didn't really understand the last thing he said but I nodded. Thanked him. He gave me a big bear hug. And it didn't even feel awkward.

I shared this story because this weekend I will attend a blog conference that I have been wanting to go to...absolutely free to me. There was a giveaway on a friend's friend's blog and I entered. And won.

There has been a lot of planning since then to make sure that my family and especially the baby are taken care of while I attend. There has been a lot of excitement. There has also been some anxiety on my part. Some old feelings of fearing crowds, first impressions, meeting new people, making new friends and contacts.

God brought the memory of this round table and Tim Timmons to mind. For some reason, then and now again, God has asked me to step outside of my comfort zone and go ON MY OWN to meet new people in a very big way.

Last night, as I was praying and giving these fears over to the Lord (again), I began to wonder about Jesus' time here. With the disciples, the religious leaders, the political leaders, the strangers...I wondered about His personality interacting with others. Was He gregarious and loud, laughing and joking and putting others at ease? Was He bold and daring, calling people out and getting the task done no matter the cost? Was He meek and mild, choosing peace over confrontation and someone that could always be counted on? Was He thoughtful and analytical, seeing exactly what was going on long before others and speaking right to the heart of a subject?

As I remembered all of the stories in the gospels, an old song came to me and I knew. He's the Lion AND the Lamb. He was all of those things that I listed above at different times. Still, I wondered...was He ever comfortable here? He was never the top dog, after all.

He had to be uncomfortable. His home was heaven. A limitless spirit, He entered a limited human body. He humbled Himself greatly and made Himself uncomfortable to be obedient. To change the world.

Sometimes I can feel like my wallflower personality in a new setting is less-than the social butterfly personality. But the truth is...the more I get to know people, the more of a social butterfly I become myself. I am not *just* a wallflower. Sometimes, this wallflower likes to leap off of the walls and onto the dance floor.

The Lord comforted me with these thoughts last night. That I am just how He created me to be. I am favored by Him. And so are you. And we are different. And still favored, each one. And I am in awe of Him, once again. He has proven once again to me that humility comes before honor and when I am weak...He is strong.

Oh, I finally figured out what Tim Timmons was talking about when he said, "It starts with me." Turns out...it's from one of his songs AND actually was on my list of songs to sing at one point way before I met him because it's message was exactly my heart. God is funny like that. Enjoy:

]]>http://lizroberson.com/blog/an_uncomfortable_encounterFri, 24 Apr 2015 00:00:00 -0700Liz Roberson | Liz Roberson Music | BlogYou Make Me Bravehttp://lizroberson.com/blog/you_make_me_brave
In this video, I share a little about why I do what I do. Piercing into the darkness with His all-consuming light.